Zeugma
by Frost Deejn
Summary: Eames investigates the torture and murder of an unidentified man, and tries to help Goren deal with his mother's death.
1. Penumbra

Disclaimer: Some guy named Dick Wolf apparently owns _Law and Order: Criminal Intent._ Not me. No infringement intended; this is just my way of saying I like the show.

**Zeugma**

Chapter 1: Penumbra**  
**

"I can't talk right now. I need to be alone." Bobby Goren said as he sidestepped Detective Alex Eames to get to his apartment.

"Yeah right," she said to herself as she turned to follow him. He had been fighting back tears since he saw his mother's body in the morgue. No, she mentally corrected, not fighting tears, more like he was fighting falling apart.

He knew she was following him, but at the moment he absolutely couldn't stand to talk to anyone, even her. He ran up the stairs to his apartment. He locked the door behind him, but only a moment later he heard it unlock. She must have brought out her spare key while she was chasing after him.

"I said I don't want to talk," he reiterated angrily.

"I know," she said soothingly. "I'm not asking you to. I just don't think you should be alone right now."

She saw his irritated wince. He began heading toward the bedroom, where he could lock himself in and wait for her to leave, but he collapsed on the floor in the middle of his living room, sobbing and insensate. Eames knelt next to him and rested her hand on his shoulder.

"She was all I had," he managed to say between sobs. She sat silently, knowing nothing she could say would make him feel better. He finally cried himself to sleep. She found a blanket and tucked it around him, then got a blanket of her own and fell asleep beside him.

He woke up before dawn. It took him a minute to recognize where he was and remember why. He looked over and was startled to see Alex's face in the dull light. He stared at her like he had never seen her before, like she was some new species he'd never even read about. Then he lowered his head to the floor and fell back asleep, emotionally exhausted.

* * *

"He would have bled to death slowly. Someone should have heard his screaming," Eames reasoned as she examined the crime scene photos. 

Captain Ross nodded. "He was probably unconscious when he was taken to the kill sight. They probably chose that place because it's isolated and has a fire hydrant. They hosed off the body, making sure we wouldn't find any evidence on him."

"Has he been IDed?"

"No wallet, prints aren't in the system. He did have a unique tattoo." He dropped the photo of the tattoo in front of her. "Checking it against known gang tatts turned up nothing."

"Am I interrupting?"

Eames and Ross looked to the door, where Goren stood, looking tired.

"I didn't think you were coming in today," Ross said, glancing at Eames. "I thought you were taking some time off." He sincerely hoped Goren wouldn't say anything stupid, like that he didn't want to take any time off on account of his mother's death.

"I'm...I just wanted to...drop off some files." He handed a stack of folders to Eames.

"Thanks," she said quickly as he retreated out the door. She dropped the folders on the side of her desk, but then noticed one loose slip of paper drift to the floor. "Oh, no."

"What?" Ross asked, wanting to get back to discussing the John Doe with the odd tattoo.

Eames picked up the scrap of paper. "Address and phone number of the funeral home. It must have been stuck to one of the folders. I'll be right back."

She raced out of the police station and caught up with Goren as soon as he reached his car. "Hey! You dropped this."

"Thanks," he said akwardly as he took it from her. He couldn't look her in the eye. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but didn't.

She waited. Of course she realized he let that slip of paper fall deliberately; he had something he wanted to say to her in private.

"About last night..."

She still waited.

"I don't...understand what you did for me."

"It was nothing. I checked on you at your apartment to make sure you were okay, and I dozed off."

His swollen eyes fixed on his shoes as he said hesitantly, "You couldn't have known..."

"We don't need to talk about this," she assured him.

He nodded, then climbed in the car. "If you need me...for the case...call, okay?"

"We'll be fine. I'll be in touch with you later." She went back to the office as he drove away.

"Is he alright?" Ross asked when she got back.

"Of course not." She didn't elaborate, but just went back to the crime scene photos. "The cuts on his chest and arms...they don't look right."

"They're not stab wounds, they're slash wounds. Very shallow; the ME thinks from the angles of the slashes that they came from two knives held by one person, one in each hand, pointing down. The wounds on his arms are defensive, which tells us his wrists were tied down after the initial attack."

Eames scrutinized a photo of the victims head. He was a very young man, probably early twenties, with curly ginger-brown hair and light freckles. Clean shaven. His face was bruised in several places. Far less blood than there should have been, only thin slashes hedged by puffy white skin. The blood had been washed away with the evidence. "Anything on his tox screen?"

"Clean."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Then the needle marks on his feet were part of the torture. That brings the total number of methods used on him up to six. They must have tortured him for hours, if not days. Someone should have reported this boy missing. I'm thinking drugs."

"Most dealers this age are also users, and there's no evidence he was. Let's not jump to conclusions." He looked at her questioningly. "You sure you want to investigate this alone?"

"For now." She looked back at the photos, shaking her head slightly. "I wish I knew if he ever told them what they wanted to know."

"Find out."


	2. Gloaming

Chapter 2: Gloaming

Goren sat in his car outside the florist shop. He'd just ordered the flowers for the funeral. He'd planned on calling the cemetery afterward to set the time, but when he got back to his car he found he couldn't summon the willpower to do anything else. He sat in the driver seat, staring at the window, for hours. He wasn't even thinking. He just looked, not at anything in particular. The cellphone rang. Goren flinched as his mind re-engaged. Mom was dead.

He answered the phone after the fifth ring. "Goren."

"Hey Bobby." It was Eames. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I need your advice on something."

He rubbed his eyes as if he'd just woken up. "What?" he asked.

"It's this crime scene," she sighed in frustration. "There's no evidence here. I've had the neighborhood canvassed, and no one saw anything at all. I swear sometimes I..."

"What's the crime?" He was grateful to have something to distract him at the moment.

"Murder of a John Doe. He was dumped in a vacant lot in the middle of a slum and hosed off with water from a nearby fire hydrant."

"So what do you need my advice on?"

She took a moment before answering. "For starters, why would someone dump him here? Is the river suddenly not good enough for these goons?"

"The killers are probably familiar with the area. Maybe they're sending a message to someone who lives there. Canvass the neighborhood again and find out if any of the potential witnesses have a criminal record. Focus on buildings within view of the vacant lot."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He closed the phone, and then decided he wanted to go for a walk. He didn't pay much attention the the street or the buildings, or the increasing cold and the shifting colors of the greasy dusk sky. He was focusing on his own feelings, and his own thoughts. Eames hadn't asked him how he was doing. She didn't even allude to his personal crisis. He should have felt hurt, but he didn't, and he wondered why. "Because she knew," he whispered. Alex was a clever investigator, especially when it came to practical connections like that. The ideas he'd given her she must have thought of on her own. She'd called to check up on him without sounding patronizing or sympathetic. Maybe she knew sympathy was the last thing he wanted at the moment. After all, he recalled, she knew what it was like to lose someone. Even though it had been years since her husband's death, it still hurt her; he could tell from the way she never talked about him. He'd been irrationally feeling like he was completely alone in his suffering, like no one could understand the sudden desolation. But Eames understood. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. Part of him felt gratitude, but another part felt resentful for some reason. Mostly he just felt cold and lost, and confusion.

He returned to the car, but didn't start it. Without warning, without any conscious thought leading up to it, tears spilled out of his eyes. Silent this time. They weren't tears for his mother's death, they were for her miserable life. It was so unfair. The world was unfair. Everyone was miserable. Everyone said that. Everyone said "Life's not fair," but they said it in blithe, resigned way. They just accepted it, and didn't realize that it was the most disgustingly tragic fact imaginable.

He finally started driving home. The tears continued coursing down his face unabated.

* * *

A/N: I'd hate to sound demanding, but I would really appreciate some review. Just tell me if you like it or not, even if it's just a smily face or a frowny face. I'm kind of new to L&O: CI, so please point out if anyone seems out of character. 


	3. Cleave

Chapter 3: Cleave

She took a deep breath and pressed 1 on her speed dial.

He answered halfway through the second ring. "Goren."

"Hey, it's me."

"Hi. How's the case going?"

"We might have a lead. The flyers we put out got a hit: a bakery chef who might have seen our mystery man the day before he died."

"Good." He paused, trying to think of something to offer. "I hope Ross isn't driving you crazy now that he doesn't have me to pick on."

She gave a forced laugh to the forced joke. It was a good sign that he was at least attempting humor. "He's fine. I'm actually on the way to question the witness now. I'm stuck in traffic so I thought I'd check in." A passing car honked its horn, and she winced, wondering if he could tell from the noise over the phone that she was actually parked on the side of the road with the car turned off. She'd just arrived at the bakery, and decided it was a good time to call him. "What are you up to?" A casual, conversational way to ask if he was all right.

"I'm...I'm looking for my brother." On his end of the line, Goren glanced around at a backstreet homeless community. He'd been questioning one when his cellphone rang. He held the most recent picture of his brother in his other hand.

"Any luck?"

"I've talked to some people who say they saw him a couple of weeks ago, but...it's not easy."

Eames didn't say anything. She didn't want to offer words of hope, since he would hear in her voice how little hope she thought there was. "Good luck," she finally said.

"Thanks." He was glad she couldn't see him, because though his voice was grateful, his face was pained, as though he'd just been seared by something. Luck. Why did she keep using that word? What did luck have to do with his mother's death? "Call me...I'll call you, okay?"

"Right. Later."

As soon as the sound from her end of the phone fell silent, Goren wished it hadn't. That connection with that world, the world of the criminal investigation, with its distracting challenges and rewards, and the sound of her voice had been like a golden thread, thin but solid, to hold on to against the inner blizzard of his emotions. He turned back to the search for his brother, wondering how long he would go before he gave up.

* * *

Eames stepped inside Fodor Bistro. There was a customer in almost every table at this time of day. She walked up to the counter, and smiled at the tall, plump man behind it. "Luis Fodor? I'm Detective Alex Eames." 

He smiled back. His wide grin made the dark, wiry hairs of his neatly trimmed beard bristle. "They didn't tell me they were sending their pretty detective."

She smiled pleasantly, though a little annoyed. "Can you tell me, Mr. Fodor, is this the man you saw in here on Monday?" She slipped out John Doe's headshot.

Mr. Fodor looked down and suddenly lost any trace of levity. "Yes. That's him. He was in here every morning for almost a week, then, two days ago, he doesn't show up. Mm, that kind of thing can really make one lose one's appetite."

"Do you remember his name?"

"He never told me his name. He just came in, ordered a pastry and coffee, paid with cash, sat down and ate. Last Saturday he was in here with a girl. She didn't order anything. She came in, sat down, and they talked for a few minutes, then she leaves."

"What did they talk about?"

He shook his head. "It was in Spanish," he said apologetically.

"Do you remember anything? Any one word they used?"

"No. Then she left by taxi and he walked, like he always did."

"Which way did he go?"

"He turned left. South. He came from that direction, every day."

"What did the girl look like?"

"Petite, very pretty, very dark skinned. She had very long black hair. That's all I can tell you."

"Thank you, Mr. Fodor, you've been _very_ helpful." She handed him her card. "Call me if you think of anything else."

"Don't worry, Miss. I will."

Eames walked outside. It was a warm spring day, and the sunlight lit the gentle green canopy of old trees lining the sidewalk. John Doe had been staying within walking distance of here, to the south. She called Ross to tell him her next move, then began walking in that direction. She looked at the windows above the shops, and at the clutter in the alleys. It reminded her of her days in Vice, searching for how and where someone lived. He'd been clean-shaven when he was found. The ME's report indicated there had been about twelve hours between when the first cuts were inflicted and the time of death, and it was doubtful a fresh shave was part of the torture. He hadn't been living on the street; he'd been staying in a hotel or a house. She went in each business she walked by, showed the photo around and asked if they'd seen the man.

Finally she came to a cheap hotel. "Have you seen this man?" she asked the clerk behind the front desk.

The clerk looked at the photo. He'd already seen Eames' badge, and his face showed he was worried. "He stayed here last week."

"I'll need his credit card information, and the keys to his room."

"He used cash. He gave me a wad of hundred dollar bills and asked me how many days they would buy him."

"Did you get his name?"

"Hey, cash says I don't ask questions. I figured he was illegal. But I couldn't prove it," he added hastily, "so...Now I'm thinking maybe he was a dealer."

"You get a lot of those in here?" she asked just to see him squirm.

"No, of course not. I thought about calling the cops."

She couldn't resist a smile. "Just give me his room key."

He hastily found it and tossed it to her like a hot potato. She let it fall to the counter, pulled out latex gloves and an evidence bag, and smiled sweetly at him. "We'll need your fingerprints to rule you out. Don't go anywhere."

"No one's touched that room since the guy left, I swear. He still had five days left, and he told me not to let anybody go in," the clerk called after her.

She unlocked the door and eased it open. The room was a mess. It had obviously been thoroughly searched. Each drawar had been pulled out, the pillowcases had been slashed open, the TV, clock, and phone had been disassembled. "Great," she grumbled. A quick look around revealed the lock on the window was broken, and the bathroom was in just as bad shape as the bedroom. She sighed and called for the CSU techs to dust for prints.

While she was waiting for them to arrive, she heard a knock on the door. She saw the desk clerk through the peephole. "What is it?"

"There's a woman downstairs who insists on speaking to the man in the room. She told me he'd want to see her. I told her...Oh my God! What happened in there?" He looked past her at the room.

"What did you tell her?"

"That he...that he'd told me he didn't want any visitors, and I would check with him. I tried to call, but the phone must be off the hook. What should I tell her?"

"Did she give you her name?"

"Flora. But the way she said it makes me pretty sure it's not her real name."

"Send her up, but don't tell her I'm here."

He nodded and left. Eames waited by the door, watching the corridor through the peephole. A young Hispanic woman with long black hair came up the stairs, moving nervously. She looked around to make sure the corridor was empty before knocking.

Eames opened the door slowly. The young woman's eyes widened when she saw the state of the room, and her gasp was almost a scream when she saw Eames. She darted down the hall without a word.

"Wait! I'm a cop," Eames shouted as she darted after her. "_Policia! Pare!_"

The woman was very athletic, and she was almost to the ground floor by the time Eames reached the stairs. She was out the door in seconds.

Eames' had drawn her gun instrinctively as she ran. The woman turned down a dark alley. Then Eames heard a scream, and managed to put on another burst of speed. She turned a corner and saw the woman being dragged away by a man holding a gun to her head. Eames trained her gun on him. "Put the weapon down. I'm NYPD."

The man looked up. Alex saw him tense. She couldn't tell which of their guns fired first. It might have been simultaneous. She ran towards him as the woman fell to the ground. He ran away clutching his arm. "Stop and put your gun down!" she ordered.

He dropped his gun and turned slowly, hands raised. Eames fumbled for her handcuffs with one hand. "You're under arrest." When she was a few feet away from him, he suddenly exploded into action. Her gun fired again as he ripped it from her hand. She heard it clatter somewhere off in the shadows, but by then he had two knives in his hand, held pointed downward. Both knives flashed toward her in a flurry of reflected light and skin. She jumped back, and he jumped forward. Her arms rose defensively, and she felt bursts of pain. Her hand twisted forward and grabbed one of his wrists, and she ducked as the other knife arched toward her head. The wrist yanked out of her hand, putting the man off balance long enough for her to get a kick in, a powerful kick that knocked them both back. As she staggered backward, she grabbed the gun he'd dropped and pointed it at him. "Seriously, freeze," she panted.

He dropped his knives and put his hands in the air. "Don't shoot," he said. "We're done." His eyes shifted to the women he'd shot a moment before.

Eames glanced behind her, and only then realized the woman was still breathing, and blood oozed from her forehead in time with her heartbeat. The bleeding had to be stopped immediately, and an ambulance needed to be called. It took Alex only a second to make the choice. She stooped next to the woman, set the gun down withing easy reach, and put pressure on the wound with one hand as she pulled out her phone and called an ambulence with the other. She heard the suspect flee down the alley, just like she knew he would.


	4. Nombre

Pronunciation note: Xochilt (so'shilt) is a Mexican name that means "flower" in Nauatl, the language of the Aztecs.

Chapter 4: _Nombre_

Alex stood next to the hospital bed, absent mindedly toying with the bandage wrapped around her right arm.

"We've relieved the pressure on her brain, but we can't know when she'll regain consciousness," the doctor explained.

"Just my luck," Alex said sardonically.

Ross walked in. As she turned to look at him she caught sight of the clock on the wall, which told her it was only 6 a.m. She'd slept a little, but she didn't feel like she had.

"How are you?" Ross asked with sincere concern.

"I can't complain. Nothing's broken and I didn't get shot in the head. I just wish I got the bastard. I think I got a good enough look at him for a sketch." She gently pressed the cut on her arm beneath the bandage. The pain medication was starting to wear off. "I'm sure it's the same guy who attacked our John Doe. The way he uses knives is kind of signature. Some of the cuts on the vic's arms look just like mine."

"The sketch won't be necessary. We got prints off his gun; he's in the system."

Her brows shot up with interest. "Oh, really?"

"Carlos Lorenzi. He was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon four years ago, and got out of serving hard time by turning in the drug dealer who hired him. Her prints are also on record," he indicated the woman in the hospital bed. "Twenty-three-year-old Xochilt Ortiz. Immigrated from Mexico with her family in '99, became a U.S. citizen last year. No criminal record."

"I wonder how she got caught up in this...whatever this is."

"Lorenzi's prints were also found at a break-in of a dock warehouse last Saturday," Ross said.

"What was stolen?"

"Nothing."

Alex shook her head and wished Bobby was there; he'd at least be able to think of the next question to ask. "I should go back to the office and write up my statement," she said.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." She looked at the doctor. "Make sure to call me when she wakes up."

* * *

Three hours later, Alex finished her report. She rested her head on her desk for a moment, and briefly considered asking Ross for the rest of the day off. Instead she called in a request for the police report of the break-in Lorenzi had been involved in. As she waited for the fax machine to finish spitting it out, she flipped open her cellphone, closed it, flipped it open again, and called Goren. He didn't answer, but she heard a familiar ring in the direction of the elevator, coming closer. 

"Bobby," she smiled at him and flipped her phone closed.

"I heard you went to the hospital. Are you okay?" His eyes fixed on her face, and his forehead was wrinkled with concern.

"I'm fine. I just got a little scraped up in a scuffle with a suspect."

"Who was left handed," he said, and explained in response to her questioning look, "You're favoring your right arm. That's where you were...hurt."

She actually had cuts on both arms, and one across her right collar bone that she hadn't even known about until she was checked out at the hospital. The worst one wrapped halfway around her right forearm. "I guess he was left-handed. I didn't really notice."

She picked up the report from the fax machine and went back to her desk. Goren followed her. "I want you to look at something," she told him. She sat in her chair and brought out an evidence bag. Inside was a small piece of note paper with rows of handwritten numbers. "We've faxed this to an accountant, a cryptographer, and a mathematician. We haven't heard back yet."

He leaned over her shoulder to get a better look. He was so close that Alex could feel the warmth coming off his body. They did that a lot when they worked together: seeing how close they could get without touching. It was like a game, except she wondered if she was the only one playing it. If he knew how it sometimes affected her, he'd probably be more careful about personal body space. That's why she never let on. She looked up at him, shifting her shoulder just enough that it brushed his arm. It would look like an accidental touch to anyone who happened to be watching.

He acted like he hadn't noticed. "This has to do with the case?" he asked, puzzling over the list.

"It was found near the victim's hotel room," Eames replied. _On a woman who's now lying unconscious in a hospital bed._ She decided to omit that detail. She had to be careful not to get Bobby _too _involved in the case.

"17, 215, 24, 302, 3, 103, 121, 7, 101, 3, 11, 2, 2121, 106, 3, 5, 6, 221, 5, 135, 141. It definitely looks...like a code." His brow crinkled, and Alex had to smile at him. "Can I get a copy of this?" he inquired.

She handed him the copy she already made with him in mind. "Knock yourself out."

He smiled at her. Then his smile faded away. "I should get back to...to the things I have to do." He rested his hand on her shoulder for a second, like a butterfly alighting on a leaf. Then he walked back toward the elevator.

Ross intercepted him before he got there. "How are you holding up, Goren?"

He couldn't think of an answer. "I'm fine...I...was just checking up on...Eames."

"She can manage without you. I promise."

That comment made Goren even more uncomfortable. His movements became tight and shifty. Alex turned in her chair, wondering if she should go to his rescue.

"When's the services?" Captain Ross asked.

A simple question with an easy answer, which Goren gave with near relief. "Tomorrow at four." He looked toward Alex and added, "At St. Agatha Cemetery in Hoboken." He talked to someone else while looking at her, like he did when they were putting on an act for a suspect. And he was putting on an act, she realized: pretending to be coping when he wasn't.

Captain Ross, oblivious to Goren's telltale nervous fidgiting, nodded. "I know this is a hard time for you Goren. I just want you to take all the time you need. Don't even think about coming back until you're ready to come back."

"I won't," he answered quietly.

"At least there's someone here who knows how to take time off," Ross said, directing the comment at Eames.

She didn't laugh. In fact, she frowned with worry as Goren disappeared into the elevator. Then she tried to focus on the report in front of her.

Four hours, another crime report, and three phone calls later, Eames barged into Ross' office. "I need to go back over the break-in at the docks."

He looked up with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. "The one involving Lorenzi? Why?"

"Because I'm sure it has to do with this case."

"I find myself praying there's more to this than a hunch."

"The most recent shipment to that particular warehouse came from Mexico; Xochilt Ortiz is from Mexico, and witnesses heard her talking to the victim in Spanish. The break-in happened Saturday night, two days before our John Doe turned up dead. Lorenzi's a hired gun, and whoever hired him for the warehouse break-in probably also hired him for the killing. I think John Doe was killed over whatever Lorenzi and friends didn't find in that warehouse."

Ross thought this over. "Fine. But I want you to take Logan with you."

"Why?" she whined. "I think I've proven I can take care of myself."

"Lone wolf is not our policy; you know that. Just because you're partner's temporarily out of commission doesn't mean you don't have to play by the book."

"Okay," she reluctantly conceded. "But I want him to understand that this is my case."

He looked surprised at her vehemence, but approving. Maybe she was enjoying being out of her partner's shadow for a change. "Of course. I'll make the necessary calls; you can go tomorrow morning."


	5. Retrospective

Chapter 4: Retrospective

Detective Mike Logan sat next to Eames in the office of the dock foreman. Eames understood why Ross had insisted on this arrangement: there were still many people who didn't take a female cop seriously - she didn't like it, but she understood it. And the foreman, Joseph Kraus, looked like one of those. He was a short, pepper-haired, slack-faced man who'd greeted her with surprise when she walked in, and glanced at Logan at the end of every sentence.

"Nothing was stolen, but a lot of stuff was broken," Mr. Kraus explained. "Lots of crates were busted open. It would have costed us hundreds of dollars, but insurance is covering it. It just caused a great big hassle."

"What kind of things were being stored there?" Eames asked.

"Oh, nothing too valuable," he said condescendingly, then addressed the rest of his answer to Logan. "Mostly factory junk, cheap jeans and the like, but there were also some crates of random stuff, stuff they couldn't fit in other boats, you know. The guys probably thought there was something valuable."

"Was anything unusual coming in on that boat."

"Sugar, I just run this place. No one expects me to know every little thing that comes in or out of it."

"Well that's too bad, because if we find out drugs or weapons were being trafficked through your warehouse, it's going to cause you a slightly bigger hassle."

Logan shot her a glance. "Would you mind grabbing me a cup of coffee, Alex?" he asked.

She stood up with a soapy smile and a mental vow to make him pay for that, then left the room.

Outside, she took off her jacket and approached a couple of stevedores moving crates to the warehouse. "Hey guys."

They slowed and smiled at her. "Hey."

"It's kind of hot today, huh?" She wondered how Goren made it look so easy to strike up casual-sounding conversations with potential witnesses.

"Yeah it is." One of them wiped sweat off his forehead. "Anything we can help you with, Miss?"

"Maybe. I'm with the NYPD. I'm following up on that break-in last Saturday."

"Oh. That."

"Did you see anyone hanging around? Notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"Well...no, not that I noticed," said the shorter of the two, a black man with a Canadian accent.

The other one, a long-armed man with brown hair and a red beard, tilted his head contemplatively. "Scottie quit that afternoon. But I guess that's not really weird."

"Scottie?"

"Scott Olander," he said. "He was one of those guys who worked as little as he could get away with. We get a lot of that type here."

"I knew he hated his job, but I didn't expect him to actually quit. Last I heard he was worried he wouldn't make rent on his hole of an apartment," the other said. "Come to think of it, he was kind of acting strange that day. He watched every box that came off the boat, and he took a late lunch break, which as far as I know he'd never done before."

"And that was the day he quit?"

"That's what I heard the next day."

Logan spotted her. "There you are!" he said.

"You didn't _actually_ expect me to get you coffee, did you?"

The two stevedores chuckled and got back to work.

"I'd hate to say it, but I think this was a waste of time," Logan said. "That guy back there really doesn't know anything."

"Took you long enough to notice. Now go back in there and get the last known address of a guy named Scott Olander."

* * *

Olander's apartment was in a run-down building with peeling pinkish-brown wallpaper and flies buzzing in the halls. 

"Smell that?" Logan asked as they approached the door.

"Maryjane." Eames half-smiled. In her experience, people tended to be forthcoming while high. And the threat of a drug charge had the effect of making people slightly more cooperative. She knocked on the door.

They heard someone inside. "Who is it?" he called.

"It's us," Eames tried.

Scott Olander opened the door. He was a young man - probably mid twenties - tan, muscular, and borderline handsome. He looked at them and suddenly froze.

"'Us' being the NYPD. We just want to ask you a few questions," she finished.

"Hey, I don't know who's been talking to you, but I..." he tried to push his door shut, but Logan's foot blocked it.

"We're investigating a break-in at the dock," Logan said. "It happened the night after you quit. Know anything about it?"

"No. I didn't hear about it."

"Well good. In that case, this interview should be short. It's just standard procedure, really," Eames assured him. "And since you're going to be so accommodating, we'll know you have nothing to hide."

He sighed. "Right. Want to come in?"

"Smart man," Logan said as he walked past him.

"Let's start with why you quit, Scottie," said Eames.

"I hated it there. What can I say? Long hours, hard labor, lousy pay."

"Any reason you decided to quit that day in particular? One of your coworkers mentioned you'd been having money problems," Eames plied.

"Yeah, well, I came into some money lately."

"How much money?" Alex asked.

"$2,300."

"What was it for?" Logan pressed.

"Nothing illegal."

"Unlike what you blew it on?"

Olander panicked for a second over that comment.

"Let's make this simple," Alex said. "You were paid to do something with the cargo you unloaded on Saturday. If you tell us what you were hired to do, we'll consider not arresting you for recieving stolen goods, selling stolen goods, obstructing a criminal investigation, or even possession of illegal drugs."

Olander stood up suddenly. "Hey, I didn't do anything illegal. She _swore _to me it was all legal!"

"That's what the guys who e-mail me from Nigeria keep saying," Logan said.

"Just tell us who hired you, and why."

"I didn't know her name. It was a girl who came around the docks one day, watched us for a while, and then asked me if I wanted to make some extra money. All I had to do was make sure that crate number U-419 got onto truck number 7."

"And you didn't think that was illegal?" Logan asked incredulously.

Olander lowered his head sheepishly. "Well, I thought maybe something was going on. But she told me it was just to make sure it got to where it was supposed to go, and...come on, two-thousand bucks!"

"What was on the crate?" Alex inquired.

"I don't know. They never tell us, and I didn't ask. I know it was labelled to go to Kraus's warehouse. I thought that was kind of weird, but..."

"But two-thousand bucks," Alex finished. She took out a photo of Xochilt Ortiz. "Is this the woman?"

He started when he saw the bandaged head lying on a hospital bed. "Yeah. That's her. God. What happened?"

"We can't comment on an ongoing investigation. Where was truck number 7 going?"

"I don't know. I was just told to put the crate on the truck. She met me that afternoon on my lunch break and gave me the money. That's it."

As the two cops walked out of the apartment, having gleaned all there was to glean from their witness, Eames glanced at her watch. "I want you to make some phone calls and find out where that truck was heading."

"Okay. What will you be doing?"

"I have a funeral to get to."

* * *

The funeral service had already started when Goren heard someone else enter St. Agatha's Church. He didn't look at her until she sat down beside him and lightly touched his arm. She wore a black pantsuit, and carried a bouquet of white tulips. He knew she would be coming, but somehow he was still surprised to see her. 

"You're late," he whispered barely loud enough for her to hear him.

"I'm sorry." Eames wanted to explain that she was working on the case, but of course he already knew. She tried to pay attention do the service, but her focus was on Goren. He looked like he hadn't slept. He looked numb.

They didn't speak again until the funeral procession reached the cemetery. "It's nice here," Goren commented.

"Lovely."

Pine trees and rose bushes lined the cemetery. Crocuses speckled the lawn, and their delicate scent joined that of the grass, trees, and dirt, and the slightest sour-sweet whiff of decay. Goren hoped his mother somehow knew how peaceful it was here, and how many people came. Mostly residents and staff from Carmel Ridge, but also a handful of relatives and old friends of the family.

As the casket was lowered into the ground, Goren spoke unexpectedly, in a whisper meant only for Eames, or possibly for his mother. "I owe everything I am to her. Everything I've accomplished, I owe to her." His eyes were dry, but Eames could see him quivering.

With the burial service over, the attendees began drifting away, offering Goren condolences he didn't seem to hear as they walked past.

Eames didn't offer condolences. She didn't say anything. She just stood by him, by the grave, until they were the only ones left in the cemetery. Then Goren dropped to his knees beside the headstone and took a handful of fresh dirt, which he rolled around in his palm before letting it fall back to its place. Then he stared at his dirt-stained hand.

"Bobby," Eames said gently, "let's go."

He looked up at her, then glanced around as though he was trying to remember how he got there, then he nodded and stood up. Eames linked her arm with his as they walked away.


	6. Caesura

Chapter 6: Caesura

Eames and Logan looked around the warehouse where Truck 7 had unloaded. A couple of canine units were there, searching for evidence of drugs or explosives, turning up nothing.

"They came at about nine or ten p.m. on Saturnday," said Liao Su, who ran the warehouse. He'd confirmed the crate had arrived on Saturday afternoon. "They made a special appointment to pick it up as soon as possible."

"Did you get the name of the company?" Alex asked.

"They said they were instructed not to say, but one of them gave me his card anyway: MacCallum Movers."

* * *

An hour later, they were at the MacCallum Movers home office. When they walked in, the man behind the desk stood up to meet them. "Hello, how can I help you two?"

"I'm Detective Logan, this is Detective Eames," he said as they brought out their badges. "We'd like to ask you some questions about a delivery you did last Saturday night."

"Ah. That one."

"You don't sound too surprised that the cops are interested in that shipment," Eames noted. "Can I ask why?"

"There seemed to be something..._sub rosa _about it. The client didn't give a contact number, insisted we pick up the package at night, and then had us take it to an alley down town to hand it off to someone else."

"Who was this 'someone else'?"

"No one I knew. There were a few guys with a truck. They covered their license plate, which was when I really started to worry. But we got the money the next day."

"How did you get the money?" Logan asked.

"They paid by credit card over the phone. I never met the client in person. Sounded old, with a heavy Spanish accent. I couldn't even tell if it was a man or woman's voice."

"What did the package look like?"

He thought for a moment, then held his hands out to approximate the size of the crate. "About four feet by four feet by five feet. And a lot heavier than it looked. With the night pick-up and how heavy it was, I told the client it would cost $500, and instead of negotiating for a lower price, the client said they would pay $850 if we would throw in not talking to anyone about it. That was warning sign number three."

"And you didn't take a little peek in the crate to see what all the fuss was about?" Alex inquired.

"No. That would have been against our policy. And, to be perfectly honest, if it was something illegal I didn't really want to know too much about it."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Logan said as they walked out of the building. 

"No kidding."

"I'll look up the credit card number, but something tells me it will be a dead end. Someone went through a lot of trouble to cover their tracks."

"And I don't think it was the same someone who hired Lorenzi. There are two someones trying to cover their tracks here." She paused thoughtfully. "I think it's time to use my 'phone a friend.'"

* * *

Goren heard a knock, and put his book down reluctantly. He wasn't surprised to see Alex at the door. 

She frowned at his thick stubble, swollen eyes, and shabby attire. "Is this a bad time?"

"No. Come in."

She entered hesitantly. She picked his book up off the sofa. "_Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc._ Any good?"

"Yeah, it's...a book my mom used to read me. Please...sit down."

She put the book on the coffee table and lowered herself into the sofa. "How are you?" she asked quietly, thinking maybe he was finally ready for that question.

He wasn't. He locked his eyes on the book on the table, then sat next to her. When he looked at her again, he asked, "How's the case going?"

"Slowly. I'd actually like to get your take on it."

"Of course," he answered. He'd known the second she walked in that was what she came for. She was carrying the case file.

She saw his eyes flick to the folder. "Let's start with the victim," she said and brought out the photos of his body. "We still don't have an ID on him. Witnesses say he spoke Spanish."

Goren spread the photos out, and his face tightened into a frown. He turned his head to her, and she could see a look of distress in his eyes. "This man's been tortured. You didn't tell me he'd been...tortured."

"He was interrogated," Alex said. She knew he knew the real reason she hadn't told him was that she didn't want him to worry about her. "It's different," she insisted.

"Is it affecting you? Maybe affecting the way you feel about the victim or the killer?"

"No, and this isn't about me," she said firmly.

He let it go at that, but didn't look reassured. He fished out the photo of the victim's tattoo.

"Any idea what that is?"

He squintes at the abstract block of curved lines and circles. "It looks...the style looks familiar, but I can't place it." He set it aside.

"I tracked down the hotel where he was staying," Alex continued, taking out more photos. "That's when I ran into her: Xochilt Ortiz. She was carrying the paper with the numbers I gave to you. Any luck with that by the way?"

"No. It's too short to...decipher."

"The accountant, mathematician, and cryptographer couldn't figure it out either." She brought out Lorenzi's mugshot. "He shot her in the alley outside the hotel. His MO matches John Doe's killer."

"You arrested him?"

"No. He got away."

Goren nodded, concentrating deeply. "And he's the one who...he's the one who attacked you."

She didn't confirm his guess. "Carlos Lorenzi. His fingerprints were found at a break-in of a dock warehouse two nights before John Doe was killed. We've figured out a crate that was supposed be in that warehouse ended up somewhere else. Ortiz bribed a dock worker to put it on the wrong truck, and then a moving company handed it off to some mystery men in the middle of the night. That's as far as we've got. All we know about what's in the crate is the canine units didn't smell explosives or drugs."

He read through some of Eames' notes. "$2,300 to bribe the dock worker, $850 for the moving company. That's the kind of money people pay when they have to scrape up the cash. Whoever's behind this...isn't wealthy...isn't just looking for something to waste money on, to show off. The thing in the crate...has some...personal, emotional meaning for someone." He took out some photos and arranged them in a pattern on the coffee table. "Xochilt Ortiz goes to John Doe's hotel with the...list of numbers..."

"She was looking for him," Eames said. "She saw me and she ran."

"And then Lorenzi tries to kill her. This was after he killed John Doe. How long did they torture him?"

"Rogers thinks it was about twelve hours."

"He told them what they wanted to know," Goren said. "But it wasn't...all they needed to know. He didn't know that much. Was there anything in his hotel room that linked him to Ortiz?"

"No. There was nothing personal in his hotel room."

"I don't think they knew each other before that."

"A witness saw them meet at a bistro a few days before."

"Of course. They'd have to know what the other one looked like. But I don't think they knew each other before they got involved with this." He shook his head, not in negation, but as though he was trying to get some loose piece of the puzzle to fall into place. "This meant something to them, too. It wasn't about money."

"What motivates people besides money?" Alex asked half-jokingly.

"Love, revenge, pride. People are complicated."

She glanced at him. He was a good example of that. "That's true. It's not like we do _this _job for the paycheck."

For a moment, he looked like he was about to smile, but it passed. They locked eyes and didn't say anything for a long moment. The photos on the table were momentarily forgotten. "Alex, I know...I want to thank you..."

They were jarred from the moment by the ringing of Eames' cellphone. She glanced at it, then looked back at Goren. He'd averted his eyes from her and was examining the photos again. "You should get that," he said.

She answered it. "Eames."

_"Hello, this is Dr. Thompson, from Metropolitan Hospital."_

"Is Ortiz awake?" she asked quickly.

_"No, but her mother is here and would like to talk to you."_

"I'll be there in half an hour," she said.

Goren watched her a little sadly. "The case?"

"Yeah." She gathered the photos into the folder without looking him in the eye. "Thanks for your help. I'll...I may be back later, is that okay?"

He nodded. As she walked out the door, he leaned back on the couch and picked up his book.

* * *

Eames followed Dr. Thompson into Xochilt Ortiz's hospital room. "This is her," he announced. 

The woman sitting by the bed jumped to her feet. She was short, rotund, and energetic, with grey-streaked black hair pulled into a loose bun, and dark, intense eyes. She marched up to Eames and pulled her into a suffocating hug. "You saved my daughter's life," she said in a heavy Mexican accent.

"You're welcome," she squeaked.

Mrs. Ortiz released her and stepped back, keeping her hands firmly on her arms. "She's my only daughter. You don't know how much it means to me, what you did."

_Just doing my job,_ she thought about saying, but it could sometimes sound callous, and it wasn't really true. After all, it was the reason she'd chosen this job. "I just hope I can get the guy who did this to her."

The older woman smiled and nodded. "I'm sure you will." She finally let go of Eames and went back to her daughter's side. "Her acceptance letter from City University came in the mail today. It would have been the happiest day of her life."

"That can wait until she wakes up," Eames said encouragingly.

"She's going to major in history. She wants to be a professor." She smiled, but tears were brimming in her eyes.

"Mrs. Ortiz..."

"Call me Arcelia." The tears spilled and she took her unconscious daughter's hand.

"Arcelia, do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill your daughter?"

She shook her head. "No. But I think she may have been in some trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know. But I wanted to tell you, a couple of weeks ago she got a call...actually she called in sick to her work, and then she waited by the phone all day. She lives with me..."

"A phone call?"

"Yes, that evening. The person on the phone gave her some numbers to write down, then hung up. She waited all day for some numbers!"

Eames opened the case file. "Were these the numbers?"

Arcelia looked at them and nodded. "And that's my Xochi's handwriting."

"Do you have any idea what these numbers might mean?"

She shook her head.

Eames then showed her the photos of John Doe and Carlos Lorenzi. "Have you ever seen either of these men."

She concentrated on their faces. "No, I'm sorry."

"Arcelia, would you give consent to trace the phone call that came to your house?"

"Of course. Anything."

Eames made a couple of phone calls, and found out that the call had come from a payphone in Mexico City.

* * *

It was nearing midnight when she walked out of the hospital room. She yawned and decided to call it a night. At the front door, she suddenly froze, and turned back slowly. The nurse she'd just walked by...he looked familiar. Short, narrow-shouldered, and wiry. His face was partially hidden beneath a surgical mask. He was scribbling something on a notepad as he walked, writing with his left hand, but awkwardly. He held his right arm against his body, as though it was in pain. Goren had been wrong for once: Carlos Lorenzi wasn't left handed, he just couldn't use his right arm because that was where Eames had shot him. 

She changed directions silently, instantly awake and alert. He didn't look back, secure in his disguise. He chatted with the receptionist for a moment, then headed towards Xochilt's room. Eames trailed him until he slowed near the door, then she brought out her gun. "Carlos Lorenzi, you're under arrest for attempted murder and assaulting a police officer."

He froze when he heard his name. He prepared to make a run for it.

"Don't even think about it. Turn around with your hands in the air."

He did as told. "You wouldn't fire a gun in a hospital, would you?" he taunted.

"If I were you, I wouldn't bet on it. Now put your hands against the wall." She pressed the barrel of her gun against the back of his head and started frisking him for weapons.

"Hey, if you wanted to get flirty, you just had to ask," he said with bravado.

"Believe me, you're not my type." She found and confiscated two knives strapped to his waste.

The door opened. "What's going on here?" Arcelia Ortiz asked.

"I'm arresting the man who shot your daughter," Eames answered as she handcuffed the suspect.

Arcelia's face melted in fiery hatred. She took a threatening step toward Lorenzi. "You murdering scum!"

Lorenzi's eyes widened, and he took a step back. He didn't put up any resistence as Eames tugged him down the hall, followed by invectives and curses spilling from Arcelia's mouth. Eames smiled. _If I were him, I'd rather take my chances with the police too._


	7. Exegesis

Chapter 7: Exegesis

The public defense attorney assigned to Carlos Lorenzi looked bored. She sat in a chair behind her client, literally twiddling her thumbs. Lorenzi, in contrast, sat absolutely still, staring at the mirror.

"Is he trying to intimidate us?" Ross wondered. He, Eames, Logan, and A.D.A. Kent watched the suspect through the glass. They'd decided not to start the interrogation until he started fidgiting.

Eames shook her head. "He's trying to figure a way out of this. When he was arrested before, he turned in the guy who hired him for a deal. The downside to that is he doesn't get paid. If the guy who hired him isn't caught, when Lorenzi does get out of prison he still gets his money. I've heard of some hired guns demanding bonuses for going to jail for their clients, though more often the money goes to their family."

"We've got an airtight case against him for two attempted murders. I can't see this guy doing that kind of time for anyone," Kent said.

"I don't think he will, but he's thinking about it," Eames replied.

Ross glared at the man through the glass. "This monster shot a girl in the head in front of a cop over a piece of paper."

"He probably wouldn't have shot her if Eames hadn't shown up," Logan speculated. "He was probably planning on dragging her off somewhere and torturing her for what he wanted."

Eames' eyes narrowed in a glare she wished Lorenzi could feel. "If you can't beat them, shoot them." She'd underestimated Lorenzi. He might have been a two-bit thug, but he was self-contained, disciplined, strong, stoic, and cold. If he'd had full use of his right arm when he attacked her, she would probably be dead.

"The attempted murder charges will hold up, but what I really want is some concrete evidence linking him to the murder of John Doe," Kent complained. "I've heard about his attorney, Tamako York. She's creative, and she knows how to play a jury."

"Goren would get him to confess in under sixty seconds," Logan said.

Ross quickly stated, "But he's on leave, and we're not going to drag him back just because we can't get a statement from a suspect we can convict without one."

Lorenzi started tapping his foot on the floor. Eames headed for the door.

"You sure you're all right with interrogating the man who tried to kill you?" Ross asked.

"I'm fine with it; I'm hoping he won't be." She smiled at him. "But if you're worried, you can chaperone."

He couldn't help but smile. "No, I think I can trust you."

Ross had his moments, Eames decided as she entered the interrogation room. "Hello again, Mr. Lorenzi."

His attorney rose out of her chair. "It's about time. We've been waiting in here for almost an hour."

Eames shrugged as she dropped her folder of photos on the table. "We weren't too worried about hurting the feelings of a killer."

"You can't prove my client killed anyone, and he has no intention of pleading guilty to it."

"How would you know? He hasn't said one word to you."

"My client is traumatized," Ms. York insisted, coming up with the idea as she said it. "He's been held here for hours with a severe injury that needs medical attention. I must insist his injury be treated and he be given sufficient time to heal before we continue with this interrogation."

Eames stared at her. "You can't be serious."

"You wouldn't want me to drop words like 'coerced confession,' 'medical neglect,' and 'police brutality' at the trial, would you?"

Deciding to ignore her, Eames sat down across from Lorenzi. She took out the victim's picture. "Mr. Lorenzi, we know someone hired you to kill this man. If you tell us who hired you..."

Kent rushed through the door. "Stop!" Eames looked up. "She's right," Kent said. "If his injuries are severe, anything we get from him now might not stand up in court. If he's in pain not treating him could be considered coercion."

Eames locked eyes with the suspect. "At least tell me his name," she asked, almost pleading.

Lorenzi looked up at his attorney, then back at her with a cruel smile. "I don't think I'll say anything. After all, I'm in so much pain, I'd tell you whatever you wanted to hear."

As he was led out of the room, Eames' shoulders slumped with disappointment.

* * *

Eames sat at her desk catching up on paperwork when her phone rang. She picked it up quickly, hoping it was Goren. "Eames." 

"Detective Eames, it's Arcelia."

"Hello, Arcelia. What can I do for you?"

"Well, remember when you gave me your card you said to call you if I thought of anything. Well, I was picking up some of my daughter's things to take to the hospital for her - for when she wakes up - and I found an envelope. It had a picture inside with a date on the back: the date she waited all day for the phone call. I think it might have something to do with what happened to her."

"Do you have it with you? Where are you now?"

"I'm on the subway. I'm heading to the hospital. I do have it."

"I'll meet you there. Thank you."

When she arrived at the hospital, Arcelia was sitting at her daughter's bedside. She stood up when Eames entered and held out the envelope.

Eames put on gloves before taking it. There was no return address. It was postmarked from Mexico City. She took out the photo. In it, four men stood beside a square stone slab covered in carvings.

"It's Mayan," Arcelia explained. "Xochi is interested in this stuff. I didn't think anything of it until I read the date. I don't know if it will help you."

"It might. It might help a lot," Eames assured her. The size of the carved stone made it a perfect fit for the crate they were looking for.

* * *

Goren woke up to the sound of someone pounding on the door. He'd fallen asleep on the couch. A glance at the clock told him it was after two in the afternoon. He made sure it was Eames before opening the door; he wouldn't have let anyone else see him in his condition. 

She pushed by him without even saying hello. "I found something," she said excitedly. "I think you'll like this."

He sat down beside her. He was still groggy, but her enthusiasm was contagious.

She produced a blown-up color copy of the photograph (the original was being processed for fingerprints, not that she expected they'd find anything useful). "Know what this is?"

"A Mayan stele. Where did you get this?"

"It was sent to Xochilt Ortiz, along with the date that she would be contacted."

"This could be what was in the crate."

"That's what I'm thinking. It wouldn't be the first time someone was killed over the illegal antiquities trade," she reminded him. "But we still don't know who sent it and how our victim was involved."

Goren picked up the picture to examine it more closely. Eames took a good look at him for the first time since she'd walked in, and she frowned with worry. He was tired, he hadn't shaved in days, and he was wearing the same clothes she'd last seen him in: he was depressed.

His voice interrupted her thoughts. "I know someone who might know more about this. My friend CJ Lockwood, a grad student in linguistics at Columbia."

"Another one of your friends," she commented wryly.

He smiled at her. "I can't promise this one won't hit on you, but you should have an interesting time."

"I'm up for anything if it will get this case solved."

He wrote down directions to his friend's office. "I'll call to let CJ know you're coming."

He walked her to the door. She paused to look up at him, and ran her hand over the spiky stubble on his cheek. "Take care of yourself," she said, making it sound like an order, not a platitude. He only nodded, and she wasn't sure she believed him.

* * *

Eames knocked on the office door of CJ Lockwood, and listened to movement on the other side. The door opened and she found herself face to face with a woman a few years younger than her, and a couple of inches taller, with the lithe body of an athlete. Her hair, the color of dark chocolate, hung in tight, chin-length ringlets. Her carmel skin was lightly freckled. She had large, intelligent hazel eyes behind small glasses. 

"You're CJ Lockwood?"

"Cambria Jacinth Lockwood. I'm CJ on my academic papers to keep people guessing, but my professors and classmates call me Cambria, and my friends and family call me Jacinth. You can call me whatever you want."

"I'm Detective Alex Eames."

"Bobby's partner. He told me you were coming. Come in." She smiled pleasantly. "He was right: you are cute."

Eames took in the office. It was small to begin with, and bookshelves encroached on its meager space from every wall. The one window was partially blocked by books stacked on the windowsill. The color of the desk couldn't be discerned under the layers of papers and books.

CJ perched on her chair with her feet pulled up and her knees poking out beneath the armrests. She waited patiently as Eames looked around.

"I can see why my partner likes you," she said, taking a worn hardcover copy of _The Secret History of the Mongols _off the shelf, then replacing it in its slot between between a book called_ The Altaic Hypothesis _and one written in Chinese. "How do you two know each other?"

"We met at a Scrabble party. I would have won, but I couldn't convince him 'kifed' was a word. Not a proud moment. Of course, I was just a freshman at the time. Since then, we've mostly kept in touch by e-mail. We forward each other interesting articles we find or things we learn. He's one of the few people outside the historical linguistics field who really appreciates the elucidating potential of toponymy. By the way," she added, "when he called to tell me you were coming, he didn't say why he wasn't coming with you. I asked and it sounded like he was avoiding the topic."

"He's not officially working this case. His mother recently passed away."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that." She was sincerely saddened, and didn't know what else to say.

Eames sat down and took out the photo, deciding it would be best to drop the subject. "My partner thinks you might be able to tell me something about this."

She brought a magnifying glass out of her desk and took a closer look at the stele. "_Lakam Ha -_ Great Water - the city-state of Palenque. We've got a good angle on the date glyphs; given a few minutes I could tell you the exact day this stele was commissioned. Late eighth century, it looks like."

"How much would a stele like this sell for on the black market?"

"I'd say a few hundred thousand to a couple million dollars, for a private collection. I could call my friend at UNESCO. She'd know better than I do."

"Great. The only thing more useful than a friend of a friend is a friend of a friend of a friend," Eames joked.

"The computer lab is down the hall," CJ said. "We can scan this in and e-mail it to her. It's, what, about seven or eight p.m. in Paris right now?"

"Something like that," Eames guessed as she followed the younger woman out the door.

CJ made a call while walking to the computer lab. "Hi, it's CJ Lockwood. Are you at your computer? Great. I'm going to e-mail you something I'd like your take on." She hung up.

After scanning and e-mailing the picture, they went back to CJ's office where she set up her laptop with a webcam. A minute later, an elderly woman with short-cropped silver hair appeared on the screen. "Hello again, Ms. Lockwood," she said.

"Dr. Virtanen, this is Detective Alex Eames," she pulled Eames over to make sure she got into the webcam's field of vision. "She wants to know how much that stele would sell for on the black market."

The woman on the computer screen raised an eyebrow. "I do hope this is an academic question?"

"Actually, I believe this stele might already be on the black market, and I'm trying to find it," Eames informed her.

Dr. Virtanen nodded as she squinted at her computer screen. "This stele disappeared from a prospective excavation site outside Palenque three months ago. It's small in size, but in good condition. We believe it sold on internet auction for 1.5 million American dollars. Unfortunately, the Mexican government didn't have the resources to find it, not with valuable artifacts being stolen from under their noses every day."

"We think that someone stole it from whoever bought it. One man died. Can you think of anyone who would try to steal it?" She recalled what Goren had said about the item having emotional significance. "Maybe someone who wanted to return it to Mexico?"

She thought for a moment. "In recent years, an organization calling itself _Alianza Liberación Cultural de Mexica _has done protests and...uh, refused to by from people suspected to be trading antiquities out of Mexico. They say it is bleeding off their national soul. The ALCM makes some people suspicious that they are involved in illegal things. They are very secretive. There is no list for their members, but some of them get tattoos of Aztec or Mayan words."

"The dead man had a tattoo we couldn't identify," Eames said. She took out a photo of it and showed it to CJ.

"It's _balaam,_" CJ announced. "The Mayan glyph for 'jaguar'."

"The people who stole the stele made a secret transfer in the middle of the night. We also found a message written in code we haven't figured out yet," Eames added.

"That does sound like the ALCM," Dr. Virtanen said. "I'll ask if I can get more information on them for you, but as I mentioned, very little is known about their organization."

CJ asked quietly, "May I see the code?" Eames dug out a copy of the list of numbers. CJ's eyes danced over them. "I'd like a copy of this." She smiled almost apologetically. "I'm a linguist; maybe I can find something your experts didn't."

"Do you have any idea who might have bought the stele?" Eames addressed the question to both CJ and Dr. Virtanen.

"There are hundreds of people suspected of buying antiquities illegally. I could send you a list, but it would probably be a waste of your time. We suspect whoever bought it was a first-timer. They overpaid," Dr. Virtanen said.

"There's a little museum, the Acker Museum of American History," CJ said hesitantly, "with a collection of Mayan artifacts. The curator told me some people offer him thousands of dollars for them. He may know what locals have both the means and desire to acquire a stele."

"I'd like to get in touch with him," Eames said.

"I can take you right now, if you have time."

She nodded, then looked into the webcam. "Thanks for your help, Dr. Virtanen."

"I only hope we can recover the stele. Good luck," she said, then signed off.

* * *

CJ sat in the passanger seat of Eames' car, giving directions to the museum. "Take a left at the next stop light, then go straight for a few blocks. It will be an old yellow building on the right." 

They were quiet for a minute, then Eames asked, "Did Bobby really say I was cute?"

"Yes. It was a while ago, when I asked him about his job and what his partner was like."

"What else did he say about me?"

"That you were imperturbable, but then he corrected himself and said you were just 'unperturbed.' He really admires you."

They arrived at the museum.

"Busy place," Eames said sarcastically as they entered the building, which was so old it could have been a museum piece itself.

They were greeted by a fifty-something man at the front desk. "Miss Lockwood, I wasn't expecting you. Who's your friend?"

CJ smiled. "Mr. Blake, this is Alex Eames. Detective Eames, this is the museum's curator, Solon Blake."

"_Detective _Eames?" he asked. He sounded either impressed or scared. _Perturbed_, Eames thought.

"I'm investigating the theft of a Mayan artifact. Miss Lockwood thought you might have some idea who would want it."

He relaxed a little. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can help you. While it's true that some people ask if they can purchase some of the artifacts in my museum, I always tell them it's impossible. I never get their contact information, and I have a terrible memory for names."

"Do you have any steles in your collection, Mr. Blake?"

"I'm afraid not. We have hundreds of uncataloged artifacts in the basement, but I think I would have noticed if we had a stele." He chuckled at his own joke.

"I'm sure having one wouldn't hurt business," Eames noted.

"Of course we would love to have one," Mr. Blake said quickly, "but as you point out, the museum business isn't exactly booming. Philanthropists are putting their money elsewhere these days. Frankly, our little operation here is on the verge of bankruptcy. Depending on how our profits go in the next few months, we may have to close next year. And then who knows what will happen to our artifacts."

Eames nodded, trying to look sympathetic. "Too bad. I know my partner would love this place."

"Are you interested in history, Detective Eames?" Mr. Blake inquired.

"Not much. To be honest, I can't understand what kind of big carved rock would be worth killing someone over."

Mr. Blake flinched. "Someone is dead? I thought you said you were investigating a theft."

"We believe the dead man was involved, but since we don't know who purchased the stele in the first place, it's hard to work out who stole from who."

"'Whom,'" Mr. Blake corrected her automatically. "The correct grammar is 'who stole from whom.'"

Her apologetic smile had a tinge of hostility. "Sorry. Grammar was never my best subject in school. The point is, whoever hired the killer - whom we have in custody - may be facing a murder charge. That's why I'd appreciate it if you're completely honest about what you know." She showed him John Doe's photo. "Have you ever seen this man before?"

He shook his head.

She brought out Carlos Lorenzi's mugshot. "What about this man."

Mr. Blake looked away from the photo quickly. "No. I wish I could help, but I don't know a single thing about any of this. I'll most certainly let the police know if I hear anything."

"I'm sure you will."

* * *

By the time Eames and CJ left the museum, it was raining. 

"That was kind of odd," CJ said. "Mr. Blake was acting...suspicious."

"Mmhm," Eames agreed distractedly. She was trying to think of a way to get a warrant for the museum's financial records. She was fairly sure an investigation would reveal at least $1.5 million missing. She was also sure Solon Blake hadn't known about the murder. "I appreciate your help. It's been invaluable. Would you like me to drop you off at the university?"

"Sure." She hesitated, then asked, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in dinner?"

Eames couldn't help but smile, "Thanks, but..."

"I thought not," she sighed.

* * *

Eames went to Goren's apartment after work. She wanted to check on him, and tell him about the breakthrough. But he wasn't answering his door. 

"Bobby?" she called. She took out her spare key and went inside. She was worried that she'd find him: a personal tragedy and a gun were not a good combination.

The apartment was empty.


	8. Grievances

Chapter 8: Grievances

Goren sat in a lonely corner booth at Ted's Pub. This place was quiet, familiar, and cozy, and out-of-the-way enough that no one was likely to find him there. He'd brought Eames to it a couple of times, but it was too far from the office to be a regular cop hangout.

His phone beeped. It was a text message from CJ. "Rumi recomends you gamble everything, but I know how much you love meanspirited roadhouses." It was exactly the kind of obscure allusion he and CJ communicated with. He recalled the poem she was quoting from: _Gamble everything for love, if you're a true human being. If not, leave this gathering. Half-heartedness doesn't reach into majesty. You set out to find God, but then you keep stopping for long periods at meanspirited roadhouses._ He wondered what CJ meant by it. It had to have something to do with Eames' visit.

He went up to the bartender. "A Sake Manhattan and another beer," he ordered.

His phone rang. It was Eames. He had no intention of answering it, but force of habit compelled him. "What?"

"I stopped by your place and you weren't there. Thanks to your friend, we have a break in the case. Where are you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Don't you dare hang up!"

He wondered how she knew he was about to hang up. Now, even though his finger was on the 'end' button, he couldn't bring himself to press it. "I'm fine, okay?" he said.

"Just tell me where you are."

"Sake Manhattan!" yelled the bartender, Leo, in his heavy Brazilian accent.

"I need to be alone tonight," he said. "Please, Eames..."

"If it were me, would you accept that?"

"It's not you. It's me. I just...I can't talk to you. I need time to think."

"Right, and a bar is a perfect place to do that."

He flipped the phone shut, turned it off, then took his drinks to his table. He focused on his drink, and his thoughts. He didn't notice her walk in.

Eames' eyes sought her partner in the shadowy corners of the bar, and found his large form leaning over the table. He had shaved, and was wearing an outfit too dressy for the setting. She knew this stage; she'd hit it a couple of months after Joe's death - the point of trying to escape the grief any way you can think of. She'd bought a new dress and gone out on the town for an party that ended with the only one-night-stand of her life. She'd called in sick the next day - sick with self-loathing - and cried herself ragged. She didn't intend to let Bobby go through that.

She circled around so he wouldn't see her, then grabbed his bottle out of his hand as he was about to take another drink, and sat across the table from him. She relished his look of surprise and a long drink of his beer.

"How did you find me?" he asked, half-angry and half-impressed.

"I recognized Leo's voice over the phone."

He tried to grab his bottle back, but she jerked it away. "I liked your friend CJ. Why haven't you ever told me about her?" she teased.

"I have a lot of friends I don't tell you about," he said defensively. "It's not like I don't have a life outside the office."

"I never said you didn't."

"Isn't that what everyone thinks?" He didn't give her time to argue. "I don't know why I put up with this."

She looked him in the eye. Her voice managed to be both gentle and joking. "Why you put up with what?"

He stared at her, glared at her. "You."

It hurt like a slap, but she only smiled. "Some people ask me that same question about you."

"They don't understand." He rested his elbow on the table and ground his chin and mouth with his fist. "No one does. I'm good at my job, but I have...these incompetents in uniform, cowards in the DA's office, fools for bosses, useless partners... holding me back."

She didn't say anything. Maybe he momentarily believed he meant what he was saying, but he was really just trying to drive her away. And it wouldn't work.

"My life was good before you came along," he said, using the same tone he did when he tried to get to a suspect. "I had my friends, my work...I got the cases solved, and everyone knew who solved them. But now there's you, the...shining face of the Major Case Squad, and now when I solve a case, it's not me they see. They see _us_, like we're a team. Like you're not just a...tag-along, eye candy for the suspects I interrogate, the assistant, the...sidekick. You're the one who...follows the rules, plays it safe. People like you, your...good looks and your witty little remarks. You don't rub people the wrong way, so when we solve a case you get all the credit and none of the fall-out. You're a..." He stood up suddenly, and he would have knocked over the table if it wasn't bolted to the floor. He didn't look at her when he asked, "How did I get stuck with you?"

"You're just that lucky," she stated.

He was shocked to hear the smile in her voice, and he turned to stare at her. She drank some more beer, then held the bottle out, offering it back to him. He took it and sat back down. Amazed at her resilience, he searched her face, her eyes, and her posture for any sign of the hurt he assumed she must feel. He found it in her eyes, but it was buried beneath layers of patience, worry, and even a hint of amusement.

He stared at her reflection in the table top and took a drink. Even as he said the cruelest things he could think of to make her leave, he'd been gripped with panic that she actually would. Not just that she would leave him here at the bar tonight, but that she would leave their partnership. Why would he do that? He wondered. Why would he try to push away the most important person still in his life when he needed her most? His mother's death had hit him hard. It was a good thing that he was taking time off work; his emotions were volatile, his insights and observational skills were disrupted. Maybe he was trying to push Eames away because she was bringing work into his mourning, adding fuel to his emotional instability. Maybe he wanted to deal with his mother's death alone, to prove he was strong enough to get through the worst thing that ever happened to him. Did he resent her for thinking he needed her help? He doubted all of these hypotheses. In truth, he was grateful to her. She went out of her way several times over the past week to check on him, and when he was with her he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could get through this. So why? His mother was dead, the mother he'd taken care of for years. She was gone, torn from him, leaving a gaping hole in his heart, and leaving Eames the closest person to him. Someday, he could lose Eames too. He'd missed her so much when she was on maternity leave he didn't know how he could stand it. When she was abducted by Jo Gage, he'd been sure she was dead. He could lose her again. Or maybe she'd get promoted, or transfered, and he'd lose her as a partner. He didn't want to hurt like he did now when that happened, so that was why he was pouring as much bitterness as he could into his complicated feelings for her. But that wasn't all of it. Deep inside, he was hoping, yearning that she would stay. He was testing her. But there was something even deeper than that. He had the familiar, nagging feeling that he was missing something his subconscious had already noticed.

_Gamble everything..._

He pushed the poem from his mind. After the things he'd just said to her...

"Oh, God, Eames, I'm sorry."

He'd been quiet for so long, she jumped a little when he spoke so suddenly and forcefully.

"You know I didn't mean those things, right?" He looked up at her, pleading.

"I know." She kept her voice light, but he now sensed that underneath the levity of her tone was deep concern for him, that she was offering him something solid to hold on to, and that she'd been doing that the whole time.

"That's not the way I think about you. I could never think that about you. I..." he stopped suddenly, and in a second he wasn't sure what he'd intended to say. He couldn't believe those words had come from his mouth. He felt sick, and tainted. He wondered if he could convince her he'd had more to drink than he actually had, but he knew she was too sharp for that. "I don't know how I could say that. You're a better person than anyone else I know. I can't believe... If you left... I don't...know what I would do without you. I need you, Eames."

"I'm still here, aren't I?" she pointed out.

"But I...can't...figure out why." He sighed and buried his face in his hands and didn't speak for a minute. "You never told me...why you withdrew your request for a new partner." His hands dropped back to the table, but he didn't look at her. His chin almost touched his shoulder.

"You never asked."

"I never asked...because I was afraid. The thought of losing you...scares me...more than anything."

"Bobby," she reached out to take his hand, but he pulled it away like her touch burned, and she withdrew her own hands to her side of the table. "I couldn't sleep," she answered. "I thought about requesting a new partner for weeks before I wrote that letter. I'd heard about your reputation, about your...eccentricities, and I had no intention of being a martyr. But after I submitted the letter, I couldn't sleep. I realized I really wanted to learn from you, not just from your methods, but to learn how to work with a difficult partner. Leaving you would have been the worst mistake I ever made. And then I got used to you." That was an understatement, but now was not the time to explain how she really felt, and why. He had enough to deal with already; he didn't need to find out right now that she enjoyed spending time with him, that she had come to cherish his quirks, that her heart fluttered when she heard people praise her partner, that her fists clenched when she overheard people badmouth him, that she could picture his face perfectly when she closed her eyes, that she adored him. She didn't want him to associate her feelings for him with his mother's death.

He watched her expression as she decided against adding something, and since he couldn't think of anything to say, he took another drink. He tasted spearmint on the bottle's rim, where Eames drank from. She'd been chewing gum on the way over. He wondered if she knew about the ancient Roman practice of secret lovers drinking from the same cup at a banquet. It wasn't likely she did, but he couldn't shake the thought. He couldn't get her image out of his mind - her face in the orange glow of the city lights as she slept beside him the night after his mother died. He recalled the Croydon case, what Eames said after he told her how Nicole Wallace had gotten to him. _Then let's get her back. _The way they were reflected together in the mirrored window, the way she stayed by his side when everyone else was turning against him. She did so much for him. _Friendship, _he told himself forcefully. She did it out of _friendship, _nothing else. They were partners, first and foremost, and they were friends. She was an amazing woman: smart, witty, beautiful, the strongest person he knew; it was hard to know her well and not be enamored with her. More than once over the years they'd worked together, he'd been worried that he was falling for her. An affair was out of the question. It was more than he could hope for, and something he greatly feared. But she wasn't making it easy, the way she didn't take her eyes off him.

She noticed the questioning look he gave her. "Bobby," she said quietly, dropping the joking tone, "I can't stand to see you like this."

"I'm all right," he told her. "I'll be all right. I'm just...thinking."

"About what?"

"What would you be if you weren't a cop?" he asked.

"A ballerina." She said it with such a straight face that he had to laugh. "What about you?" she said quickly to cut off his chance to ask her if she was serious.

His smile vanished. "A librarian."

Eames lowered her eyes suddenly to keep him from seeing her reaction. He was actually considering quitting. That hurt and worried her more than the insults he'd thrown at her minutes before. "I'm sure you'd be the best librarian in the city," she said, not entirely succeeding in masking the sadness in her voice. "But you'd miss being the best detective in the city."

"The city would survive without me."

"Not all of it," she said. "Counting the future victims of the serial killers we've stopped, I figure we've saved over a hundred lives. That's over a hundred mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, children, friends...hundreds of people who've been spared the pain of losing someone they care about to an early, horrible death. It would be a hard blow to the city if you left."

He didn't answer her, or even acknowledge what she said.

"I would miss you," she added quietly and sincerely.

He tilted his head up at an akward angle to look at her without showing her much of his face. "You would miss my...eccentricities?"

She lowered her head so she could look him in both eyes. "Every single one of them," she answered.

He straightened up and backed away from the table, trying not to believe her, resisting what she was trying to say. He was going to leave.

"He could always make me laugh," Eames said suddenly.

He turned back to her. She wasn't looking at him now, but staring at the window. He had to sit back down and listen to her, because she never talked about Joe.

She gulped down the last of his beer. "I'll be right back," she said.

He realized she was giving him an opportunity to leave. She was testing him, just like he'd tested her. And he knew he wouldn't leave, even if he wanted to. He wasn't sure if he did want to.

She returned with two new bottles and handed one to him. His fingers closed around hers as he took it from her, and she lingered a second longer than necessary before drawing away.

Her eyes wandered around the room, never resting on his face, as she finally opened up about her late husband. "On our wedding day, I could see him shaking from across the room. I'd never seen him nervous before. The night before, I'd asked him if he was sure he wanted to go through with it, and he told me he'd be crazy not to. The day I proposed to him...a foggy afternoon in November, we'd been dating for almost a year, and his partner let slip to me that he planned on proposing on our one-year anniversary, and I wanted to beat him to it. He could always make me laugh. No matter how bad my day was, no matter how bad his day was, he would always have some joke or story, even if it wasn't funny to start with he could make it funny. Sometimes when I got home late, he would have cookies waiting for me. He wasn't much of a cook, but he made the best chocolate chip cookies I've ever tasted. And sometimes when I got home before he did I would go out and buy cookies for him as a joke. Sometimes he would gaze at me with his bright blue eyes...and I would feel like the luckiest girl in the world. I loved him so much. When he died, I didn't know how I was going to get through it. I didn't know how I could go on." She finally looked at Goren again. "But here I am."

"There's something I can't figure out," he said after a moment, "I make a study of people, of how people...manipulate each other, but somehow you...can still manipulate me better than almost anyone."

"Your job is to know the suspects, to get into their heads. Mine is to know you and to get into your head. And let me tell you, that's a full-time job."

"Don't make a joke out of this," he begged her. "Don't sell yourself short. Not now."

She blinked. He was still worried she took his insults seriously. "Okay, Bobby. How about this," she leaned forward with a slight smile, "You might be better at figuring people out, but I'm better at handling them."

He nodded. There was a minute of awkward silence, then he asked, "Why did you keep doing this job, after your husband died?"

"The same reason you're going to keep doing this job: because I'm good at it."

"But living with the knowledge that every morning you step out of your house to go to the office...could be your last. That knowledge must have been driven home when your husband died in the line of duty, and when...when you were kidnapped."

"Yeah, well," she shrugged, and winced. "That's true for everyone. No one knows what day will be their last. Joe and I both accepted the hazards of being cops and being married to a cop. He was a hero, and I'm proud of him, and I know he'd be proud of me that I didn't let his death scare me out of serving my city. If I died tomorrow, my work would still be worth it."

"Please don't say that." He didn't want to imagine attending her funeral.

She didn't stop. "And every night I do make it home alive, I know I've made a difference. That's one reason I love my job." She paused. "Some things are worth the risks."

He had the feeling she wasn't just talking about work anymore. He tried to think of a way to ask her, but he couldn't.

"Why were you thinking of leaving the force?" Alex inquired.

"My mom...I'm just starting to...understand how short life is. Am I really doing what I want...with the little time I have?"

Alex searched his face with her eyes. She hoped that if she didn't say anything right now he might say more about his mother.

"I can't believe she's gone. That doesn't make sense, does it? I knew it was coming, I did everything I could think...to be ready. But I still feel...cheated. The years...I should have had with her...I want them back."

"She was your mother. All the things you're feeling are completely normal. Even the guilt."

He looked up at her. "What do you know about the guilt?"

"'I should have spent more time with him. If I'd done something different, maybe he'd still be alive. If only I'd told him I loved him that last morning. If I accept he's gone and let him go and move on with my life, does that make me a traitor?' Your mother loved you, Bobby; she'd want you to be happy. You still have a life to live."

When she said it, he felt like it might actually be true. "How did you move on? Did the pain ever go away?"

She thought for a moment, then stretched out her arm and pulled back her sleeve, revealing the long row of stitches that her first encounter with Carlos Lorenzi had left her with. Goren flinched when he saw how bad her injury really was. "It hurt a lot at first," she said. "Not at the very first, but after the adrenaline wore off. Getting the stitches in was probably the worst part. Now it just aches. Sometimes it throbs. In a few days I'll get the stitches out, and that will hurt too. But after a while, so gradually I won't even notice it, it will stop hurting. The pain might flare up for years, like when I move my arm the wrong way, or if it suddenly gets cold or hot, but it will fade. The scar will fade, too. It won't ever go away completely, but someday it will just be a part of me."

Goren gazed at her in admiration. How could she be so perfect? So subtle and so devastating? Slowly, he reached out and lightly brushed the stitches, careful not to hurt her. Then he noticed another stitch just above the collar of her shirt. He gently folded back her collar to examine the cut along her right collar bone. His stomach clenched as he considered that if that gash had been just a little higher and to the left it could have slit her jugular. He couldn't think of anything to say, but his expressive face said enough. It told Alex about Bobby's fear, anger, concern, and regret. It told her how much he cared about her. He had the most expressive face of anyone she had ever met, which, ironically, contributed to how hard he could be to understand. His face could convey a thousand subtle, complex emotions that were difficult if not impossible to put into words. People didn't know what to make of him; they found it disorienting. It could even be frightening. But not to her. Not anymore.

He swallowed, and he opened his mouth like he thought he was expected to say something. He wanted to find words to thank her, and to tell her how much she meant to him, but he couldn't. Then his eyes went from the stitches to her face, and his look of admiration transformed seamlessly into one of longing. His thumb grazed her neck, then his fingers slid to her hair. She caught her breath, and for a moment she couldn't move. She told herself to stop him, not because she didn't like this, but because she did. A lot. And if she didn't stop him now, she wouldn't have the willpower to do it in another minute. She grabbed his hand. "Don't..."

Her word broke the spell. Goren pulled his hand away. He looked dazed, and horrified at what he'd just done. "I'm sorry. I..." He stood up and practically ran to the bar to pay his tab so he could leave.

With a dismayed expression, Eames stood to follow him. "Bobby, wait! Let me explain!" She chased him out the door, into the chilly pouring rain. He waved down a taxi. She grabbed the door as he climbed in. "Bobby..."

He looked up at her, nearly crying. "Don't."

She released the door, and he slammed it shut. Her dejected eyes followed the taxi as it pulled away.

* * *

A/N: The Rumi poem comes from the book _Birdsong, _translated by Coleman Barks. 


	9. Desideratum

Chapter 9: Desideratum

Eames knew how tired she looked when she walked into work and retreated to her desk the next morning. She didn't care.

Detective Megan Wheeler came up to her as soon as she saw her. "Hey. Ross wanted me to give you this." She tossed her a key.

"What's this for?"

"It's the replica of a key your suspect Lorenzi tried to hide in his hospital room. It was taped to his thigh, but he insists he knows nothing about it. The really intersting thing," she added, "is that they found traces of blood on it. The DNA matches your John Doe."

"Oh really?" She examined the key thoughtfully. "Lorenzi's going down."

"Not for a while. His gunshot wound got infected, so he'll be in the hospital for a few days. Ross wants you to find out what that key goes to."

Eames' phone rang.

"This is Dr. Thompson. Xochilt's awake, and well enough to talk."

"I'll be over as soon as I can." She looked at Wheeler. "Sounds like I get two breaks in the case this morning. Tell Ross I'm going to interview Ortiz."

Wheeler nodded. "How's Goren doing?" Eames didn't answer soon enough for her. "You just got two breaks in your case, and you haven't cracked a smile, or even a joke. You're worried about him, aren't you?"

Eames didn't want to mention the talk she'd had with Goren last night, so she forced a smile. "Losing a parent is never easy, but he'll get through it." Taking the key and her notes, she left before Wheeler realized she hadn't really answered her question.

At the hospital, Eames wasn't surprised to find Arcelia still at her daughter's bedside. "Here she is! Xochi, this is Detective Eames," Arcelia introduced them.

Xochilt gave her a weak smile. "Nice to meet you. Again. I'm sorry I ran; I had no idea you were really a cop. I thought you were one of _them._"

"I understand." Eames looked at Arcelia. "Would you mind giving us some privacy?"

"She can stay. There's nothing I could tell you that she can't hear. It's time she found out what I've been doing, and why."

Eames nodded, and pulled up a chair next to the bed. She knew how comforting it could be to have a familiar face around when you wake up in a hospital. "Do you know who they are?"

"They were hired by the person who stole the stele. That's all I know about them. When I saw you in that hotel room, I knew Delano was dead."

"Delano? That's the man who rented that hotel room?"

"Yes. Delano Juarez. He came up from Mexico. No one was supposed to know he was here but me. I only met him once. The old man set up a meeting at a little bistro near the hotel, so we would be sure we recognized each other when I did the hand-off."

"Who's the old man?"

She shook her head vaguely. "'El Viejo'. They don't tell us his real name."

"The ALCM, you mean?"

Xochilt nodded.

"The ALCM?" Arcelia asked in concern. "Who are they?"

"_Alianza Liberación Cultural de Mexica_. We're an organization trying to preserve our unique Mexican heritage," Xochilt answered. "A stele was stolen from its rightful home in Palenque, sold on the black market, and shipped here. That's why El Viejo contacted me."

"The list of numbers he gave you, do you know what they mean?" Eames asked.

"No. My job was just to give Delano those numbers." She shook her head. "We tried to be so careful. El Viejo didn't tell anyone more than they had to know to do their part of the job, in case one of us was caught. Now we may never get it back. A priceless, irreplaceable piece of Mexico's history _sold _like some kind of...like mere artwork."

Eames looked at her sympathetically. "I'll find it. I promise."

* * *

After the hospital, Eames stopped by Goren's apartment. She took a deep breath before knocking. If he didn't answer - if he didn't want to see her - then she would just go away. She wasn't sure what she would say after last night. All she knew was that she had made a mistake, and she needed to correct it. 

She was just about to give up and walk away when the door opened. Goren looked tired, but better than he had the previous morning. "You're back." The way he said it made it clear that he didn't expect to see her today. He thought that _he _did something wrong last night.

"Can I come in?"

He stepped aside and nodded for her to enter. "Would you like some...coffee or something?"

"No, I'm fine. I...How are you doing?"

He looked up at her, and his expression said _You're kidding, right?_

"On second thought, I would like some coffee," she said to alleviate the awkwardness.

He went to the kitchen. "How is the case coming?" he called.

"Good. Xochilt Ortiz is conscious. She doesn't know what the numbers mean; she was just supposed to give them to John Doe. He has a name now: Delano Juarez. The man behind this - the man who called Ortiz from Mexico City, Ortiz knew him as El Viejo - made sure no one got the whole picture."

"It's the numbers. Juarez knew how to decode them, but didn't know what they were. That's why Lorenzi killed him and tried to kill Ortiz."

"Which means if we want to find out what the numbers mean, we have to get it from Lorenzi." Eames didn't like that thought. She knew they would have to make a deal with Lorenzi to get the guy who hired him, but she really didn't want to give him any more leverage.

Goren emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. "So Ortiz and Juarez were just dominoes in a chain set up by someone in Mexico City?" In spite of everything, the case still managed to engage his interest.

"The two main dominoes. Everyone else - the dock worker Ortiz bribed, the warehouse, the moving company, and whoever picked up the package in the unmarked truck - they were hired without being let in on what they were doing. Ortiz and Juarez were the ones El Viejo trusted. I'm almost sure a museum curator I questioned was involved in buying the stele, but he acted not just surprised but scared when I mentioned the murder. He might have hired Lorenzi, but I don't think he planned on anyone getting killed. Lorenzi's the real bad apple in this salad."

"He wouldn't have gone after Ortiz or attacked you if he already had the stele."

"Exactly. Which means it's still out there somewhere. Looks like El Viejo was a little _too _careful."

"Too careful..." Bobby repeated. "They hid something so well, not even they could find it."

"People do that."

He looked at her. She was distracted. Was she still talking about the stele?

She drank the last of her coffee and set down the mug, then turned to face him. "Don't leave, Bobby."

He had to look away from her gaze.

"I know it's hard to lose someone, and it makes you wonder what's really important, but you wouldn't be happy if you left your job now. You'd regret it. Your talents would be wasted. I want you to stay. At least think about it carefully before you decide."

"I wouldn't be happy if I stayed," he mumbled. "How could I get used to a new partner?"

"What new partner?" she asked, then realized what he must be thinking. "I'm not going anywhere. Why would you think that?"

He was surprised and confused by her response. "I don't want you to stay with me out of pity. After what I did last night...after the way I touched you..."

"You were drunk." She knew that wasn't true, but she offered it as a way for him to let himself off the hook.

"I wasn't drunk. And that's no excuse. I would never...I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about! I know what sexual harassment is like, and that's not what happened." She'd miscalculated when she thought keeping her feelings from him was the best thing to do. She was only exacerbating his emotional confusion by holding back. She had tried to let him know she was there for him, but he could tell she wasn't being completely open. Anyway, the damage had already been done. Her voice softened, and she took a step toward him. "I think you didn't hear _everything _I said to you last night."

"You know how much I respect you, don't you?"

"I know you respect me," she confirmed. "And I know how vulnerable you are right now."

He gave her a pained half-smile and tried to joke, "Is that why you didn't shoot me?"

"No," she said seriously. "That's why I stopped you."

He flinched. His half-smile dropped. His eyes flicked across her face, searching for any sign she was lying, or joking, or didn't know what she was implying. But all he saw was sincerity. This was what his subconscious had been nagging him about, the thing he'd refused to see, or even consider. He asked himself how he felt about this revelation, but the emotions churning inside him were hard to pin down. "How long?" he asked.

"Gradually. Any more questions?" She'd retreated back to humor, where she could put some comfortable distance between herself and her feelings.

He laughed. _Any more questions?_ Hundreds.

They were quiet for over a minute. Then Alex's cellphone rang. She checked the ID. "It's CJ." She answered it. "Hello?"

"I solved it!" the enthusiastic voice on the phone shouted.

Eames angled her head away from the phone to save her hearing. Goren came closer so he could hear CJ's news.

"You figured out the numbers?"

"It's brilliant! From the dead guy's tattoo I had the idea to convert the numbers to the Mayan numerical system. Mayan numerals are written with dots representing one and dashes representing five, piling up until the number reaches a multiple of twenty, when the numerals go up a level and a shell shape is used for a zero. I noticed when I transfered the numbers that not a single one of them contained a zero! Just dots and dashes. So I thought, 'what other system uses just dots and dashes?' So I decided to see what happened when I interpreted the numbers as Morse Code!"

"And?"

"And it's an address!"

Alex smiled at Bobby. "Excitable, isn't she?" She brought the phone back to her ear. "What's the address?"

"It's 2058 South Brunswick Street, apartment 1F."

Alex jotted it down in her notepad. "Thanks CJ."

"My pleasure. Give my regards to Bobby. And tell him about the code; I think he'd get a kick out of it."

After closing the phone, Eames headed to the door. She stopped and looked back. "You coming?"

He looked at her, still dazed. He hadn't expected that question. That one little, casual question meant so much more than it should have, and he knew a lot rode on his answer. "Just...let me get my coat."

* * *

They arrived at the apartment complex at 2058 South Brunswick almost an hour later. It hadn't been an easy address to find. The car ride had been mostly silent, except for Goren speculating on directions while pouring over a street map. 

Apartment 1F was located on the ground floor in the back of the building. They rang the doorbell, but there was no one there.

"We need to call for a warrant," Eames said.

A man came around the corner. He looked at them in confusion. "Are you the renters?"

"No. I'm Detective Alex Eames, this is my partner Detective Goren, NYPD." She showed him her badge. "You the landlord?"

"Yeah, Max Kuiper, nice to meet you. No one lives in this apartment. It was rented out a couple of weeks ago, but the occupant hasn't shown up yet. I've been keeping my eye on it."

"Did someone come by here late Saturday night a couple of weeks ago, the night of the third?"

He shook his head. "But a couple of my employees picked up the renter's belongings and dropped them off."

"Did you ever meet the renter?"

"No, we worked it out by phone. An elderly Hispanic guy. He said his named was Delano Juarez. He had my guys pick up his stuff at two a.m. and cover the license plate of their truck. He said his ex-wife was looking for him, that she was involved in drug trafficking and had threatened to kill him. Is that what this is about?"

"Do you know when he was supposed to move in?" Eames questioned.

"He said it might be a while, but that I shouldn't tell anyone he was coming."

"Well Delano Juarez is dead. He was murdered not long after you picked up the crate."

Goren spoke for the first time. "If you never met him in person, how did you send him his key?"

"He had me mail it to the hotel he was staying in."

Eames took out the key. She slipped it into the lock and turned it. "Do you mind if we take a look around?"

"Go ahead," Mr. Kuiper agreed. He seemed a little shaken by the murder. "I really need to get back to my desk. Tell me if you need anything."

The apartment was nearly bare of furnishings. The blinds on all the windows were pulled shut. Lying in the middle of the living room floor was a large crate with "U-419" painted on the side. Goren took out his pocket knife and went to work prying off the lid. Eames held her breath in anticipation. Was this really it, or just a misdirection?

After considerable effort, Goren slid the lid off. Then he lifted out a styrofoam slab that had been cut to fit the object inside. His eyes widened as the room's meager light revealed the stele. It was remarkably well-preserved, though some weathering around the edges of the carved glyphs revealed its antiquity. Next to the Mayan words was an image of a person kneeling in front of an empty throne. He wondered what the writing meant, and decided to ask CJ to translate it. "You found it," he said.

"_We _found it."

He was surprised to hear Alex's voice so close, and glanced over. She was kneeling next to him, also taking in the stele. But when he turned his head toward her, she looked back at him. Before either of them knew what was happening, she had kissed him. It had been quick, simple; she pressed her lips against his for a second, then backed away, stood, and pulled out her cellphone.

"Hey, Captain. We need the evidence team at 2058 South Brunswick Street, apartment 1F. Send a _big _truck. You might also want to get in touch with UNESCO and the Mexican Consulate." She paused a moment, then smiled at something Ross said. "Expect to be surprised. I'll call you again after they get here."

Goren had turned his eyes back to the stele, but he was no longer thinking about it. The second she kissed him his mind had gone blank, which was an unfamiliar, disorienting, disturbing and liberating sensation. Then as she left his side his brain had kicked into overdrive, running in multiple directions. "A truck... Juarez would have had one waiting, one he'd driven up from Mexico. He would try to minimize the risks of anything going wrong, anyone finding him...long-term parking, underground...within walking distance of his hotel, but not too close. Not so close anyone would think to look there. Lorenzi would have...known what to look for." He looked up at Eames, who was watching him. He stood and began walking toward her, slowly. "We need to...get crime reports on unclaimed vehicles. It might have been...towed. It might. have...been stolen." He shook his head. "But I doubt it. Lorenzi would assume...someone would be looking for Juarez. He would assume that...that other criminals think like he does...plan...like he would." As he drew closer to Eames, his breathing became erratic. "Juarez would have driven...non-stop from here to Mexico as soon as he had it. He would have supplies in his car, a full tank...everything he would need...to...get away. Probably a Texas license plate." He stopped a foot in front of her. "That's how Lorenzi found him."

"I'll get the vehicle crime guys on it as soon as we get back," Alex whispered breathily.

Bobby gently took her shoulders in his hands. He was still working on sorting out his feelings, but what he did know was that if he didn't kiss her now he would regret it. He lowered his head slowly, giving her opportunity to pull away if she wanted to. But she moved closer. He let his lips flutter against hers, then deepened the kiss, only a little, experimentally. Her arms slid around his back, and she pulled him closer, kissing him more firmly. His left hand moved from her shoulder to cup the back of her head; his fingers entwined in her hair.

She pulled away reluctantly. Bobby's eyes slowly blinked open like he was waking up from a dream.

"They'll be here soon; we have to be careful."

He nodded. He stepped back and smoothed her hair, searched her face for smeared make-up, checked her clothes to make sure there was no tell-tale wrinkle. A new layer of nervousness was added to the hurricane of emotions in his mind.

Eames glanced over him. "You look fine," she informed him.

He smiled. She kissed him again, carefully. "Come to think of it, they probably won't get here for at least half an hour," she said against his lips.

They plied each other with nervous little kisses - eyes open, frequent glances at the door - for another few minutes before Eames moved away and made a phone call to ask for vehicle crimes for the time between the theft of the stele and Delano Juarez's murder. Goren watched her. He was overwhelmed, he was puzzled, and he was numb. He was almost relieved when the CSU team arrived, and amused by their reactions at discovering the piece of evidence they were there to secure was an ancient Mayan stele.

* * *

They were quiet as Eames drove away from the apartment complex. She felt guilty, wondering if she had taken advantage of Goren's fragile emotional state. How would he feel about the kiss later, when he could think more clearly? 

Goren wondered the same thing. He felt guilty about experiencing any happiness when he should have still been in mourning. And that's what Eames did to him: she made him happy, sometimes against his will. That was another reason he'd tried to drive her away. But wouldn't his mother want him to be happy?

Then it dawned on him: the way he delighted in Alex's presence, how much he missed her when she was gone, his protectiveness when a suspect threatened her, his constant efforts to impress her...all the times he'd deliberately resisted falling in love with her, it had already been too late. And she stayed, through everything, in spite of everything. She was a part of his life that wasn't going to ever slip away. His mother was gone, and that was something he would have to deal with, but he still wasn't alone. In fact, he had never been less alone in his life. With that thought, the emotions that had been swirling inside him fell into place, and a sense of peace came over him that he hadn't felt in years.

Eames must have seen something in his face, because she smiled at him - a sincere, uninhibited, relieved smile. Then her eyes returned to the road.

"Can we keep it out of the office?" Goren asked. He wasn't worried, just curious.

"I don't think anyone will even notice."

* * *

When Eames and Goren entered the squad room, Ross gave Goren a look. "I told you not to come back until you were ready," he complained. 

Eames glanced at Goren. "Who, him? He's just my consultant."

Ross had to laugh. "If you say so." Then he became serious. "There's a message for you from the vehicular crimes department."

She walked to her desk and picked up the report. "White '89 Ford with a camper, tinted windows, forged Texas plates, broken front passenger-side window, nothing appears stolen, found at a parking garage three blocks from the apartment where Juarez was staying."

"Have CSU dust the car for prints...and compare whatever they find to Juarez and Lorenzi," Goren requested.

Ross raised his eyebrow, wondering but not surprised that Goren knew so much about the case.

"What he said." Eames tried not to smile.

Ross shook his head with a half-amused grin. "All this for a big rock?"

He went to his office to make the calls. Eames and Goren sat at their desks. "If we find both Lorenzi's and Juarez's prints in that car, Lorenzi's goose is cooked."

"Now all you need is...who hired him."

"I need some evidence connecting Blake to Lorenzi or the stele. My gut tells me he's behind it, but that's all I've got."

"Blake is the museum curator?" Goren guessed.

"Yeah. Solon Blake. CJ knows him; she took me to see him because his museum has a collection of Mayan artifacts. If I just had enough evidence to bring him in as a witness, he'd crack like that." She snapped her fingers.

"You're so sure?"

"You didn't see this guy. He got in way over his head."

"Why?" Goren pressed.

"My guess is he wanted to get the stele as a last-ditch effort to save his museum, hired Lorenzi when the stele disappeared, and hasn't been in the loop since."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds...plausable. But then the question is...how did he know Lorenzi? There had to be some connection, or...mutual friend. Find out if Lorenzi has any connection to Blake or the museum."

"With Lorenzi's rap sheet, that's going to take a while. Mind lending a hand?"

He smiled. It was good to see him smile again. "Your 'consultant'?" he said with mock umbrage.

They both laughed, then got to work.

* * *

Solon Blake was nervous as he was escorted him into the room off the interrogation room. Besides the officers who brought him, there were two men in the room. One was a middle-aged Jewish man with curly dark brown hair, the other was a large man with salt-and-pepper hair and a sullen face. Through the window he could see the blond detective CJ had introduced him to sitting across the table from Carlos Lorenzi and a well-dressed, bone-skinny brunette he assumed was Lorenzi's lawyer. 

"Why did you bring me in here?" he asked the police.

"Mr. Blake, have you ever seen that man before?" Ross asked.

"No. I'm being told I'm a material witness in this murder investigation, but I have no idea why I'm here. I don't know this man, I didn't know the murdered man..."

"That's funny," the large detective said in an uncertain voice, "because this man, Carlos Lorenzi, was implicated in a drug trafficking case along with someone who used to work as a tour guide at your museum, Brandon Bailey."

"I didn't know that. The museum fired Brandon when we found out about the drug charges."

"And you haven't been in touch with Brandon since then?"

Blake shook his head. He'd decided on a policy of pleading ignorance, and he was going to stick with it.

"That's not what Brandon's parole officer tells us. We heard that you're penpals."

Blake looked increasingly pale. "Okay, so I wrote to him. I liked the kid; he showed promise before he got into drugs."

"Are you sure he never mentioned Lorenzi to you? Maybe you needed some help with something, and you asked Brandon to recommend someone."

"No. I swear I never met or heard of this Carlos Lorenzi."

"Well, just listen." He turned up a volume nob on the wall. "Maybe this will jog your memory."

* * *

Eames smiled smugly at the man who tried to kill her. "You know, Lorenzi, our ADA says she hopes you go to trial, because it would be the easiest conviction of her career."

"You can't prove I did anything," Lorenzi insisted.

"Really? We have the murder victim's blood on a key found in your possession, your fingerprints in his car, your face on film from when you snuck into the hospital to kill Xochilt Ortiz, and the testimony of the guy who hired you."

"No you don't."

"You know what he told us? That he didn't know anything about the killing. You did that on your own initiative."

* * *

In the other room, Blake sputtered, "I never said that!"

"I didn't hear her say _you _did," Ross said.

* * *

Lorenzi folded his arms. "You're lying," he stated firmly.

"Were you hoping for a bonus for going the extra mile to recover the stele?" Eames pressed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"He already told us everything. We even have footage of you talking to him on the museum's security cameras."

"That's impossible; I was never at the museum." His eyes suddenly widened as he realized what he said. "The old guy sold me out!"

* * *

Blake was starting to panic. "What's he doing? What does he think he's doing?"

"Sh. Just listen," Goren suggested.

* * *

Lorenzi's lawyer whispered something to him. Then he leaned forward. "Okay, the guy hired me to find his stupid stele. He told me to get it back using whatever means necessary. He told me to grill that Juarez guy until he told us where it was, so I did. But when he still said he didn't know where it was, Mr. Blake told me to keep going until he talked. His dying was just an accident."

* * *

"He's lying!" Solon Blake nearly screamed. "I never told him to torture anyone. I didn't even know he found the guy who stole it!"

"Of course you didn't want anyone to get hurt," Goren said gently. "Everything you did was to preserve the artifact, to put it somewhere safe where everyone could appreciate it."

Blake was surprised to get sympathy from a cop. "Exactly! If I hadn't bought it, it would have ended up in a private collection somewhere, an expensive status symbol for someone who neither knows nor cares about its significance."

"You must have been so upset when it went missing right when it was almost yours."

"That stele would have saved my museum. Without it, all the treasures, all the priceless artifacts I've worked so many years to collect and protect will be sold, lost, scattered. How could I let that happen?"

"Of course you couldn't. That's why you borrowed money from the museum's operating costs to rescue the stele."

"Yes. The stele would have easily brought in enough money to cover the costs."

"So you hired Lorenzi to get it back," Goren continued for him. "You had no idea what he was capable of."

Blake hesitated. "Exactly."

"Except...you did have an idea, didn't you? That's why you hired him. You knew all you had to do was dangle enough money in front of him and he'd do whatever needed to be done. You didn't have to know...you didn't want to know what he would do to get your stele back."

"That's not true! I...I would never have told him to kill that man."

"How much did you offer him, Mr. Blake?"

"A million dollars, to be handed over as soon as the stele was safe in my museum."

"A million dollars?" Goren glanced at a police officer in the corner, who took out handcuffs and approached Blake.

Blake stared in horror at the handcuffs. "But I saved the stele! If I hadn't bought it, it would have disappeared into the back room of some spoiled fat cat's mansion."

"But 'some spoiled fat cat' didn't buy it, Mr. Blake; you did. And no matter how you try to justify it, a young man is dead because of you. He died to protect the heritage you were trying to take away."

"I didn't think anyone was going to die!"

"You offered a million dollars to a man like Lorenzi to get the stele by whatever means necessary. What did you expect would happen? Solon Blake, you're under arrest for antiquities smuggling, embezzlement, and abetting homicide."

As the officer recited the Miranda Rights and led Blake away, Goren looked back at the interrogation room, where another officer was taking Lorenzi out in cuffs. Eames looked over her shoulder and smiled at the mirrored window. Goren smiled back.

* * *

Eames was filling out paperwork when a newspaper fell onto her desk. She looked up into Goren's eyes. 

"'Priceless Mayan Artifact Recovered'," he recited the headline. He leaned over the desk to read the sentence he'd highlighted. "'The Mexican government and UNESCO expressed gratitude to the NYPD, with special thanks to Detective Alex Eames of the Major Case Squad for her efforts in finding the stela.'"

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said with a smile.

He sat down at his desk. "Yes you could've."

"Even if I did, it wouldn't have been nearly as much fun."

He gazed at her. "That's exactly how I've always felt about having you for a partner."

She pushed the newspaper aside so she could get back to the paperwork. "We really do make a good team," she said.

"Yes we do."

She wrote for a minute, then picked up the newspaper again. "It doesn't mention Delano Juarez."

"That part will come out after Lorenzi's trial."

"And by then no one will care," she said sadly. "Ross was right: it's just an old rock. Hardly seems worth dying over."

Goren moved to her side of the desk and took out a photo of the stele. "CJ's been working on translating it," he said. "These glyphs here say _u kab panamil_: 'to touch the earth,' which means to be born. This one is _huntan_ which means 'beloved one' and is used to refer to a child. CJ thinks the stele tells the story of the birth of an heir after the death of the monarch. This stele...the story on it...gives people like Juarez and Ortiz a piece of their history that was taken from them at the Spanish conquest. It's about pride. It connects them with a dignity that was denied to them for hundreds of years. When someone else tried to take it away from them, of course they did whatever they had to to protect it." He glanced at her; his gaze caressed her thoughtful face. "Alex..."

Their eyes met. He read her thoughts in her face: _I would do whatever I have to to protect you_.

"Some things are worth the risks," Goren concluded. They shared a secretive smile before turning their attention back to their paperwork.

The End


End file.
